


Heavy Heart

by Crazyhotsoup



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur Whump, Canon Compliant, Father-Son Relationship, Injury, Medical Procedures, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Canon, caretaker dutch, i can't really place exactly when in time this is supposed to take place, puking, stab wounds, whumpee Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26483518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazyhotsoup/pseuds/Crazyhotsoup
Summary: "The fight was over quicker than it began. Drunken brawls usually were."A drunken brawl leaves Arthur battered and worse for wear. Dutch tries his best to keep it together.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [flat_goo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/flat_goo/gifts).



> This is for a very very good friend :) flat_goo is writing a fantastic fic and, if you haven't, check it out. 
> 
> Goo, Dear, I think it's only fair you get one of my better fics. Every day I learn something new about you and I just love getting to be your friend. You've helped me so much and I am eternally grateful to you. You're such a kind person, who deserves the world. I love you so so so much and I hope this can help to drive that point home. 
> 
> This is not entirely historically accurate, but what’re you gonna do?
> 
> This wasn't meant to be multiple chapters, but i think it's gonna come that. 
> 
> Change of pov is signified with a horizontal line

The fight was over quicker than it began. Drunken brawls usually were. 

Icy wind whipped at Arthur's face and he wished desperately that he brought even a jacket. 

"Look like you suck cock, boy,” Slurred at him from the tight alleyway was all it had taken. 

Arthur didn't think of himself as an angry drunk, but his most recent disagreement with Dutch had left him in a foul mood. 

He stopped dead in his tracks and swung towards the voice. 

"Wanna run that by me again?" His voice had come out in a low growl. 

"I said," The figure emerged from the alleyway revealing pasty skin and tall, wide shoulders. Arthur drew himself to his full height and set his face into an angry scowl. "You was a no-good, son-of-a-bitch, cocksucker." 

He was expecting the punch and dodged it easily enough, landing a quick jab of his own. The man spit angrily. 

A fist connected with his face, breaking his nose and sending a near-instant gush of blood down his chin. 

Arthur swayed on his feet, lights swimming in his vision. 

Throwing himself at the man, he knocked them to the ground and wrapped his hands around his throat. 

" _You fucker_." The words came out a garbled mess. Arthur pressed his thumbs down harder. 

Sharp metal slammed into his lower back. Once. Twice. Three times. 

Arthur's hands loosened and he slumped to the dirt street. 

Loud hacking coughs filled his ears. 

A sharp kick connected with his injured side. Over and over the steel-tipped boots of the man dug into his injuries. Then warm putrid-smelling spit landed on his cheek. 

The man scrambled away from Arthur, leaving him bleeding in the dark.

He pushed himself up and crawled towards the alleyway, hoping to avoid the penetrating wind

* * *

Dutch waited as long as he dared. 

Their argument had been bad. Yelling, cursing, damn near coming to blows. And then, then Arthur had twisted the knife by walking out into the cold. 

Arthur had snarled out ‘back in an hour’ as he stormed away from camp. 

Dutch anxiously glanced towards Boadecia and decided something was wrong. 

The Count shied away uncomfortably as he attempted to tack him up. 

"Com' on, boy, work with me." His words sounded empty to his own ears. The count shifted below him but started forward when his spurs lightly pressed into his flanks. 

Heavy hoofsteps echoed like gunshots in Dutch's mind. 

The trek into town felt impossibly long. Each shadow by the road morphing into a frozen Arthur. Each noise a cry for help. 

He was barely in the town when he heard it. 

A low pained moan. 

He drew the Count to a stop and threw himself down from the saddle to investigate. 

Slumped against a darkened wall, was Arthur. 

The man had a bloodied face and a pasty complexion. 

"Arthur?" Dutch dropped to his knees in front of his son and cradled his limp head. 

"Arthur?", he asked again. Arthur let out a weak groan and heavily opened his eyes. A bolt of fear lodged itself in his gut. He undid his jacket and draped it over Arthur's front. 

"I gotta lift you. Okay, Arthur?" He didn't wait for a response as he leaned Arthur forwards and bullied his way between him and the wall. 

A warm, wet patch soaked into his front and Dutch's eyes widened. 

He glanced down in the moonlight. 

Arthur's back was covered in blood. Probing touches revealed the source. 

At least two stab wounds to his back. 

"Shit, Arthur. You're gonna have to work with me." Dutch did his best to mind the wounds as he dragged him towards the Count. 

"Arthur." The man's eyes rolled in their sockets. "Arthur, I can't lift you. I need you to help me." 

Dutch hesitated. Could Arthur stay up on his own? Or would he have to hold him up?

With a feat of strength that surprised him, he pushed Arthur onto the back of the count. 

He pulled himself into the saddle and draped Arthur's limp arms around his waist. 

The horse snorted at the extra weight but, thankfully, behaved. 

Hosea would know how to fix it. Hosea would know.

Each step from the Count was met by a pained moan from Arthur and an ever-growing pit in Dutch's gut. 

_How long had he been out there?_

_How much blood did he lose?_

_Would he survive?_

The last question buzzed inside his head. 

If the argument had left their boy injured, let alone killed him-

"Dutch?" Hosea's voice broke through the cold night. Dutch felt his heart race as he opened his mouth. His tongue felt frozen. He couldn't form the words, instead, making a weak gasping sound. 

The older man's pace quickened as he saw the limp form slumped behind Dutch. 

"Had a wild night did he- Is that blood?" Hosea's words sounded hollow, and Dutch's grip tightened on the reins. He looked down at his white knuckles. 

The world was a roar. 

Arthur was pulled from the Count's back and he barely even took note of where they moved him. His gaze focused on the scars adorning his hands. Years of bar fights and back-alley brawls had left them rough. 

"You hear me, Van der Linde?" He slowly turned his eyes towards Susan. The woman's schoolmarm glare pierced through him. 

"We need your help. Arthur needs your help." He practically threw himself from the Count's saddle, rushing towards Arthur's tent. 

A worried buzz settled over the camp as he looked down at his son's battered form. 

Yellow lantern light illuminated Arthur. 

The red mess dried under his nose had been hurriedly wiped away. Orange-tinted streaks were left and Dutch was sure he could still see blood crusted in his nose. 

Hosea had stripped away his shirt, revealing three gruesome knife wounds in his back. 

Dark blood sluggishly oozed from the cuts. Purple bruises had formed around them, leaving Arthur's back a horrific mess. 

"Hold him still while I clean them." Dutch straddled Arthur's legs and Susan pressed his shoulders firmly down into the cot. 

A concerningly quiet groan was uttered as Hosea wiped a cloth over the wounds. 

"There you go, son. There you go." Hosea worked methodically, cleaning each one with care. Dutch caught sight of the bottle of liquor and grimaced. 

"This is gonna hurt, son." His voice was quickly drowned out by an inhuman scream. Arthur jerked under him, nearly throwing him from the cot. "You got it, son. There you go." 

Hosea's fingers prodded the abused flesh and more dark blood oozed from the cut. 

"That ain't normal, Hosea." Susan's words buried themselves in Dutch's heart. 

"I know. Something ain't right." Dutch squeezed his eyes shut and willed the welling tears to subside. "He needs a doctor, Dutch. Someone who can find out what's wrong."

“We can’t-”

“He’s our son, Dutch. I would risk being picked up by the law for him.”

“There’s not even a doctor in town.” His words were quiet as he avoided gazing at Arthur. 

“So, we’ll take him to the next one.”

He looked down at his boy, bathed in yellow lamplight. 

The quiet mutterings of the gang members were deafening. 

Fear, anger and nausea writhed in his gut. 

He wanted to beat the scumbag who hurt Arthur to a pulp. 

He wanted him to be fine without a doctor's visit. 

He wanted to puke. 

Dutch jumped from the cot and made it two steps outside the tent before he doubled over and emptied his dinner into the dirt. 

The acrid smell of the bile made him heave a second time, puking up what little was left in his stomach. 

"John, Bill, hitch up a wagon. Mr. Morgan needs to leave camp immediately." Susan bent down and helped raise him to his feet. She leaned into his ear and whispered harshly. "You need to pull it together. I love that boy with my whole heart, but you're the goddamned leader of a gang. Act like it." She released his arm and returned to Hosea's side, collecting a spare blanket from Arthur’s trunk. 

Dutch cleared his throat, straightened his bloodied vest and raised himself up to his full height. 

"Mr. Williamson, how is that wagon coming along?" His voice cracked as he spoke but he paid it no mind. 

"Just about finished, Dutch." He let out a relieved breath and turned towards Hosea. The older man had bandaged Arthur as best he could. 

"Will you help me drag our son to that wagon, Old Girl?" The sound Hosea made was almost a laugh. Dutch smiled despite himself and draped Arthur's left arm over his shoulder. They walked as quickly as they dared, wincing anytime the younger man let out a pained noise. 

"John, climb up in there and help us out." Dutch groaned as John tripped over his own legs, panic dripping back into his mind. 

They lifted Arthur into the wagon, laying him on his front. Dutch climbed in with him. 

"I'll sit with Arthur. John, you ride up front with Hosea, and Susan," His voice died in his throat as she glared at him. "You, you hold down the fort." 

"Dutch Van der Linde if you think for one-" Hosea cut her off. 

"We need someone level headed and strong willed to calm the troops right now, Miss Grimshaw. You are just the person for the job." She softened at his words, still keeping her scowl. 

"Fine. Get on with it then." Dutch shifted Arthur's head to lay in his lap and nodded at Hosea. 

The biting wind chilled his bones. Dutch could only imagine how Arthur felt. 

He stroked the younger man's hair, whispering meaningless words to him. 

Fingers of light stretched over the horizon, revealing previously overlooked bruises on his face. 

“What did you do, son?” He whispered the words. 

Arthur had stopped responding to the rock of the wagon, going worryingly quiet. 

Dutch's heart pounded in his chest and he prayed for forgiveness. 

With one quick action, Dutch pushed his fingers into the dressed wound. 

Arthur only let out a quiet noise, barely more than an exhale. 

"Hosea, hurry up. Damn it." The older man scoffed and John twisted on the bench. 

"We are doing our best, Dutch." His younger son glared at him. 

"Well, if Arthur dies it's on you, John Marston." John's face morphed into a scowl and he opened his mouth to protest. "Don't even think about it, John, or you'll be on guard duty for a week." His mouth snapped shut and Arthur's head shifted in his lap. He dropped his gaze to Arthur's own glassy eyes. 

"Dutch?" The question was little more than a whisper, pained and broken. 

"I'm here, son." He ran his thumb over Arthur's forehead, futilely trying to smooth the wrinkled skin. 

"Where?" Arthur grimaced as they went over a particularly rough patch of the road. 

"To get you taken care of. You're safe Arthur, but I need you to stay awake okay?" 

"Alright, Dutch." Even as he spoke, he faded. Dutch watched as Arthur's eyes rolled backward and slipped closed. 

“Nearly there, Dutch.” He nodded and looked down at Arthur’s pinched face. 

If anything more happened to him- 

“Help lower him down, Dutch. John, run ahead and tell them we’re gonna be needing help.” He shifted Arthur to a sitting position. 

“Com’ on, Arthur,” Dutch grunted as they carefully lowered him to the ground.

Arthur’s limp legs were no help as they walked him towards the front door, dragging with every step. 

“That him? You know I don’t normally get up so early, but your dark-haired friend wouldn’t stop his infernal racket.” The doctor swung open the door and peered down at Arthur. Dutch bit down on his tongue, swallowing an unhelpful response. With a sigh, the doctor ushered them towards the exam room. “Set him down on the table.” 

John appeared behind them, lifting Arthur’s legs onto the table as they hefted his torso. 

Dutch barely recognized Hosea’s guiding touch until they stepped away to make room. 

“Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with.” The doctor quickly undid the bandages and sucked in a breath. “Oh my.” 

“Ain’t you a doctor? Why you squeamish at the sight of a little blood?” John glared at the man as he spoke. 

“This is severe, you’re lucky he’s not dead.” The doctor prodded the skin, leaning in close to Arthur’s back. “This might not be treatable by me. I’m just a small-town doctor. You might need a surgeon.” 

“What is that supposed to mean? You’re a doctor, so, fix him.” Dutch made to step closer to the man. Hosea’s fingers wrapped around his arm and he twisted on his heel. 

“Go have a smoke, Dutch.” His eyes darted around the room, realizing he was outnumbered. With a huff, he pulled open the door and stepped outside. 

Cold air rushed against him, reminding him that he forgot to grab his coat. 

“Waste of time and good money is what he is,” Dutch grumbled to himself. He ran his hands over his pockets, searching for the familiar tobacco pouch. 

Cool leather brushed against his fingers and he drew out the pouch. Dutch held it gripped in his palm as he dug around for his rolling papers. He drew out the thin box and drew out one of the slips. 

Dutch pinched a bit of the loose tobacco and shakily dropped it onto the paper. He cursed as the paper slipped from his grasp, taking the tobacco with it. 

Anger bubbled up inside of him. He let out a broken yell and kicked the building. 

It’s his fault Arthur was hurt. 

It’s because he lost his temper. 

A particularly broken scream echoed into the night and he felt his knees give out beneath him. 

Dutch slumped against the building, cold seeping into his bones. Hot tears slid down his face, trailing down his neck. 

“Dutch?” He looked towards the voice. John stood in the moonlight, clutching bloodied hands together. 

“How is he?” John offered him a blood slicked hand. Dutch grasped the wet palm and pulled himself up. “Hosea gonna let me see him yet?” 

“Doc said that he did all he could. He stitched him up and gave him something for the pain. Said the rest was up to Arthur” Anger and relief boiled inside of him. Anger at the doctor, relief for Arthur. 

He pushed open the door and quickly stepped through the waiting room. 

Arthur was still face down on the table, thick bandages covered the worst of it, keeping the injuries out of view. _It’s for the best_ , Dutch thought.

“He’s gonna need to take it easy. At least until the stitches come out, maybe longer. They’re in a tricky place, could affect him permanently.” He swallowed down the rising nausea and nodded. 

Hosea handed the doctor a stack of bills. 

“John, you get his legs, don’t want him shifting too much.” They worked to carry Arthur back to the wagon. It wasn’t ideal, but they didn’t have much choice. 

Dutch sat in the back again with Arthur. He laid a blanket over him and stared down at Arthur’s hair. 

It was getting shaggy. 

_”Why don’t you ever leave your hair down, Dutch?” Arthur had asked him one morning while he was combing his hair back. “Looks nice all curly.”_

_He had left his hair down for a month until Annabel had commented on it._

He almost reached out. Almost picked up a piece of the sandy hair.

* * *

When he first opened his eyes everything seemed too bright. The vibrant colors burned into his eyes. His nose throbbed where it leaned against the makeshift pillow. He tried to twist on the cot and immediately stilled when pain exploded in his back. 

_What the hell had happened?_

That night came rushing back into his mind. 

Their argument. Storming off into the night and drinking. The fistfight. Coldness seeping into him.

He tried to shake the thoughts from his head. 

“Arthur?” The voice was stunned, breathless. He turned his face away from the canvas wall and spied Dutch. 

He was disheveled. His once immaculately combed hair hung in loose chunks framing his face. His shirt was wrinkled and dirtied as if he had worn it for days. His vest was missing. 

Arthur frowned at him. 

“Worried ‘bout me?” Dutch clenched his jaw and frowned right back. 

“Worried? Arthur, you were stabbed three times and damn near bled out, Course I was worried.” He stepped closer and sat down in the chair next to the cot. Dutch slumped against the wood and Arthur realized the man had been there the whole time. 

“How long?” Dutch rubbed at his eyes. 

“Been about a week since you got fixed up.” Dutch sounded broken. He sank into the chair, practically deflated. 

“We didn’t know-” Dutch’s voice broke and he dropped his face into his hands. “I thought you weren’t gonna wake up.” 

“I really need to piss, Dutch.” The sound the older man made was nearly a laugh. He nodded and carefully shifted Arthur on the bed. 

Arthur placed his feet on the ground and braced himself against Dutch’s shoulder. He got about a foot above the cot before his body gave out. With a grunt, he dropped back onto the cot. The wounds screamed at him as he struggled to sit up. 

“The doctor said it might take time.” Frustration bubbled up inside him. He ignored Dutch’s pleading noise and pushed himself into a standing position. When his body threatened to give out again, he leaned his weight on the older man. “Arthur-” 

“I just wanna take a piss, Dutch.” The older man frowned. “What damn man can’t take a piss on his own?” He had raised his voice, nearly breaking into a yell. 

“It’ll take time, Arthur.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyy goo, i know this is very very very delayed, but i finished it.

The sound of rustling fabric had woken him. His face was throbbing and his body was thrumming. 

Arthur glanced towards Dutch’s chair and spotted it. 

A cane. A sleek, wooden cane resting against the wood. 

Dread poured into his heart. He pushed himself up, uncaring that his lower back screamed at him to stop. 

“No no no,” his voice barely more than a whisper. 

His fingers wrapped around the slender thing and he felt his heart begin to race. 

Arthur limped towards Dutch’s tent, ignoring the gaze of the other gang members. 

“Dutch,” his voice cracked as he yelled.

“Arthur, please,” Dutch stepped out into the camp. “Just try to keep an open mind.” 

“An open mind? Dutch you’re treating me like an invalid. I don’t need a damn cane.” Dutch’s expression softened with pity. Arthur's breath quickened and he glanced around the camp. Eyes met his and quickly darted away. "Don't you dare give me that face, Dutch." 

"Son, it's only temporary." He glared at the older man. It wouldn't be only temporary, he knew that. 

Arthur threw the cane to his left, not even bothering to look where it might land.

The quiet thump of the wood and metal hitting the exposed earth was impossibly loud in the near-silent camp.

He ignored the lingering gazes as he limped away. 

Time passed slowly. 

His back ached and he tired after the most menial tasks. 

Arthur felt deflated. 

His back throbbed with every movement. On the surface, it had healed. Leaving behind a wicked set of scars. The three knife wounds had been torn far more by the boot. That's what Hosea had told him. 

Hosea had been the one to actually talk about the injury. Dutch, on the other hand, had tried to simultaneously not mention it and care for Arthur. 

Dutch had been leaving things. Salves for his back, teas, a fucking cane, god knows what else he could find in the shops. But every time Arthur would find them, Dutch would disappear. It had started to wear on the younger man. 

The cane had become his enemy. At quiet hours in the night, when his mind raced and thoughts piled up to his eyeballs, Arthur would hike. He would pull on boots and grab a coat and set out into the dark. 

But _it_ stopped that habit dead. 

He could no longer sneak out like a thief in the night. The couple times he had tried, his back throbbed in protest and he found himself winded before leaving camp. 

He had tried the cane all of twice. 

The first, he had waited until practically everyone had left camp for the day. Arthur had stared at the wood cane that continued to materialize in his tent every time he threw it out. 

He had felt like a fool who had stumbled upon something he wasn’t intended to see. Dirty, low, and nervous. 

Something about leaning his weight onto the thing felt wrong. 

It didn't feel uncomfortable, it just felt wrong. As if he was signing his life away. As if Dutch was going to pack him up and drop him at a care home in the city. 

His first steps with the cane were jerky. He nearly fell forward at the stunted walk. 

He had gotten about two feet before he got frustrated at the awkward movements. 

Resisting the urge to throw the cane, he propped it against the bedside table and walked himself back to his cot. 

The second time Arthur had attempted to use the cane, he had been prepared for the strange sensation of walking with it. 

He had woken in the night and needed to get out. 

Arthur had grabbed the cane despite himself and carefully pushed up to his full height. 

The ornate carving in the handle pressed into his hand as he shakily lurched towards the woods. 

He had gotten half a mile before he began to think about the thing. 

It had obviously been designed for city life. Where Dutch had gotten it, he didn't know. 

He resented it. 

The stupid fucking swirls carved into the handle were uncomfortable. 

The way it clacked against stone. 

The dull thump of the metal tip against the soft earth.

The way his whole body lurched with each step. 

The way walking with the equivalent of three limbs forced him to slow his pace. 

How he couldn't fucking support himself. 

Arthur had slowed, coming to a complete stop. 

He would be stuck with it for the rest of his life. 

He would be stuck with the stupid fucking cane for the rest of his life.

* * *

Dutch had been scared. 

He had been scared more than he had ever been in his life. 

Arthur, his boy, had been hurt. He had been badly injured, and Dutch could do nothing but sit back and watch. 

Arthur had refused the cane. 

He had no doubt ignored the other things he left. 

Salves to soothe the muscle cramps, teas that Hosea had taught him to make, along with a few other bits and pieces. Every new shop boasted miracle cures, and he bought them. 

He knew they were a waste of money. Dutch knew that they would most likely only help a sore throat. And yet? He prayed that every time he walked into a shop and he picked one up, that _that_ time would be when it really worked. So, he continued to buy the bottles and leave them in Arthur's tent. 

Arthur had been drifting. He had begun to ignore him. 

Dutch had no idea what to do. 

Hosea had told him it would take time. A big thing had happened, and Arthur was getting older. Their son wouldn’t be able to bounce back in a week. 

He blamed himself. 

Arthur wouldn’t have been out there if he hadn’t pushed. 

Arthur hadn’t even screwed up. 

It was his fault. 

“Dutch?”, Hosea’s voice pulled him out of his thoughts. 

“Yes?”, He nearly winced at his tone. 

“I was just wanting to iron out some details of that next job, but,” He paused, lowering himself into the chair next to him. “You thinking about all that again?” 

“So, is Trelawney in? Or should I get out my suit?” He avoided Hosea’s gaze. 

The older man read him like a book. It didn’t matter what he tried to do, Hosea would know. 

“Yeah, Trelawney said he’ll be there.” Dutch nodded and patted Hosea’s shoulder before making a retreat to his tent. 

His friend was too observant for his own good. 

Dutch slumped into his chair and scrubbed his palm down his face. 

He fucked it all up. 

He had gotten Arthur into a situation he hadn’t even needed to be in. 

There was no other reason that the younger man was out there. 

They had fought and Arthur had stormed off. 

He wouldn’t have left if Dutch hadn’t pushed him. 

He wished he could just undo everything. 

He wished he could fix it.

* * *

Arthur sat at the center of camp, watching as folks were able to do chores and earn their keep. 

He knew he was dead weight. 

They would never cut him loose, but he was still taking more than he gave.

Even Uncle provided a purpose. The man could hold his own in a firefight and proved useful for snooping around. 

Dutch had preached a philosophy of caring for those in a bad way and signing those who wanted to give up on a civil life or already had.

“Gentlemen,” Hosea’s voice broke his train of thought, “Are we ready to go?” 

Arthur watched as all the _able-bodied_ men assembled around Hosea. 

It would be the first bank robbery in years that he hadn’t been a key player in, let alone, not involved at all. 

John, of all people, had taken his place. The younger man had jumped at the chance. He was still eager to prove himself as a strong arm and not the nimble-fingered kid that could slip through windows. 

At first, he had been ticked off, but he wasn’t going to be in fighting shape any time soon. 

“You’re all clear on the plan?” Hosea’s back was to him. 

Bill’s eyes darted towards his and then away. 

Arthur felt, well, he didn’t know but it wasn’t pleasant. 

It continued to bubble inside of his gut as Hosea went over the plan one last time. 

It boiled when John puffed up his chest as if he was damn Lancelot. 

It exploded when they finally left camp. 

He pushed himself up to a standing position and hobbled towards the woods. 

It hurt like hell, but he resented the damn cane. 

He stumbled over uneven ground and swore at his back. 

Arthur had thought that only his lower back would be the problem, but the pain had radiated outwards. 

It was a hot pain, pinching and burning. He couldn’t exactly put words to it. 

Arthur stumbled over a well-concealed root and barely raised his hands up in time to save his face. 

Pine needles dug into his palms as he let himself drop the rest of the way. 

Anger flashed through him. 

His senses were filled with the smells of the earth. 

Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been soothing. 

He grunted as he tried to push himself onto his knees. His back shook as he fought against his straining muscles. 

Soft footsteps neared him and Arthur desperately tried to push himself up in any meaning of the word. 

“Arthur?” 

Dutch. 

He inhaled sharply as a large hand wrapped around his arm. 

“Here,” Dutch slowly raised him to his feet and continued to grip his arm even after he was righted. 

Arthur shrugged off the hand and turned away. 

“Fuck off, Dutch.” 

He could feel the look on the older man’s face. It was undoubtedly telling him that _that kind of language only showed unintelligence_.

“Arthur-” 

He whipped around and glared at him. 

“Don’t ‘Arthur’ me. I ain’t some fool in need of your pity.” 

Dutch’s face twisted with hurt. 

“I don’t think you are.” He bit back a dark chuckle and shook his head. 

“I ain’t some invalid. I don’t need your damn pity.” 

Tears welled in his eyes as he stared at Dutch’s boots. 

“I’m not pitying you, I don’t know why you’re thinking that.” The older man’s voice was soft, a tone he scarcely heard. 

The tears in his eyes spilled over, tracing his cheeks. 

“Then what’s that shit been about?” He sucked in a shaky breath. “Why’ve you been leaving all those damn miracle cures?” 

“I was trying to help.” Dutch stiffened and a guilty look crawled across his face. 

“I don’t need any damn help. I’m a grown man, a fucking outlaw. I don’t need help.” Arthur squeezed his eyes shut and willed the tears to dissipate. 

He felt the tears slip down his face. Hot trails burned over his already heated skin. 

“I’m dead weight, Dutch.”

“Son.” Dutch’s hands settled on his shoulders. “Son, you’re not dead weight.” 

“I am,” his words came out a garbled mess. “I can’t even leave camp, Dutch.” 

“Son, you’re never gonna be dead weight and I’m not gonna cut you loose.” He collapsed into Dutch’s front and sobbed. 

“Dutch, I’m not gonna get better.” His nose ached where it pressed up against his chest. “I’m gonna be like this ‘till I die.” 

“Arthur, you’re family. We’re not going to cut you loose.” He sucked in a sobbing breath and shook in Dutch's arms. 

"I'm a fucking mess." Dutch cleared his throat and Arthur rolled his eyes. 

"Arthur, I promise you're not dead weight. You're not a burden. You're my son, and we're gonna help you however you want it." Arthur sniffed loudly and pushed back. 

"Can we go back now?" 

Dutch chuckled. 

"Course we can."


End file.
